Fallout (Crank 3)

is empty. Ghosts. That’s all. They smell

of old tobacco. Dribbled beer. Cheap

perfume. Detritus-caked dishes left

to molder in the kitchen sink. Trash.

I sneak into my dad’s bedroom, a thief

who has already cased the place. I know

where the spare change jar is kept beneath

the canvas liner in the clothes hamper.

Sometimes there’s more than change

in the jar, and this is one of those times.

Kortni’s tips have been good lately,

and without Dad’s bad habits to support,

she has squirreled away almost four

hundred dollars. I take a fistful, leave

the rest to help replace the clothes

I borrow. She’s a little bigger than me.

But baggy is better than nothing, and

nothing is what I have now. Two pairs

of jeans. A couple of sweatshirts.

A plaid flannel shirt. Underwear.

That’s the creepiest thing, but panties

are expensive. At least they’re clean.

I help myself to five pair, trying not to

think about what has worn them.

Finally I go to the kitchen, find paper

and a Sharpie, write a note: I am okay.

Have not been kidnapped. I had to

leave Fresno because Walter scared

me. Tell Shreeveport to keep an eye

on him. I had to borrow a few bucks